


Pain Like Skin

by WytchDr



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, discussions of trauma/pain and healing, mild alcohol use, nothing graphic or explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WytchDr/pseuds/WytchDr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is just a little drabble I whipped up to talk about trauma, pain, healing, and the road to being whole again.</p>
<p>Thoughts, opinions, and critiques are appreciated if you have a moment! Thanks.</p>
<p>A/N: I wrote this a little while back and my feelings regarding trauma and healing have evolved some but I'm posting this here as it was written at the time in honor of the places that my journey has taken me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pain Like Skin

“So do you wanna grab a drink?” the one with the dark hair asked.

She grinned, “You buying?”

“Yep.” He liked her smile and her sharp eyes. There was nothing hazy in them; her eyes were clear and bright like a wild animal.

She and the group from the conference chatted as they walked to the bar. They found a booth and ordered drinks.

“That’s it? Just a 7up and Disarrono? I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that.” The one with the dark hair jibed. 

She rolled her eyes, “I don’t intend on being drunk if that’s where you were going with that. Besides, how much do you think it takes to get all 120 pounds of me toasted?”

The others laughed. The blond one piped up, “Don’t like the hangovers?”

She shook her head, “Not really but that’s not why. I just don’t like being drunk.”

“Why not?” The one with the dark hair was particularly inquisitive but she appreciated his attention. He seemed genuinely interested, not just nosey.

“Do you want the socially acceptable reason or the truth?” she sipped casually at the 7up trying to make enough space to add the Disarrono. Usually she didn’t offer the truth but something about the dark haired one made her feel oddly comfortable. 

“Ooh, do we get to get the sordid details of your drinking past?” the blond one goaded.

“Hardly,” she laughed. “What people want to hear is that I don’t get drunk because I’m breastfeeding and that it’s bad for the baby. No one argues with that. But the truth,” she took another drink and added the Disarrono, “the truth is that when you drink you can forget your pain, but in the morning it all comes back just like it was new again. Then you have two choices- muddle through it until the pain fits right again or you can go back to the bottle. Since I don’t fancy the idea of being a wino and since the past isn’t any more enjoyable today than it was then I don’t find being drunk too appealing.” 

She swirled the can and stared at it, her smile was gone but her eyes were still keen. When she looked up the one dark haired one met her gaze and a look that was both a smile and not a smile crossed her face. He could see the pain, right under the surface but her façade was so practiced that he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been staring right at her.

“What do you mean by the pain ‘fitting right?’” the blond one inquired. The dark haired one was too cowed to pry anymore, at least for the moment.

“Pain is like a pair of shoes that’s a size too small. You wear them around everywhere because it’s the only pair you’ve got but you still wish you had some that fit a bit better. Your feet get sore when you wear them but as long as you never take them off the pain feels normal and after a time you forget that it was ever any different. But then, sometimes, you want to rest and so you take off your shoes for the night. It feels so good but in the morning, when you have to put them back on, the pain burns through your feet and your ankles, up your shins and into your knees, and it makes you limp. Sometimes, depending on how small the shoe is, you may limp for a few minutes or a few days, but you remember the pain and you have to choose carefully when it’s worth taking the shoes off for the price that you’ll pay later.”

The men stared hard into their drinks, fidgeting, unwilling to meet her gaze. At the conference she had taught a seminar on close quarter combat. She seemed so confident and powerful, vibrant even. That there was anything hidden behind her clear brown eyes did not pass their thought. They had known people who were wounded, broken, pained- their eyes were dark, clouded, hazy. Those people looked off into other times and other places. They were living but not alive because they couldn’t be where they were. 

She wasn’t like that. She wore her pain like her skin. It “fitted” her as she called it. Where others hid from their pain, shied away from it, and fought it, she accepted it and made it a part of herself. The one with the dark hair looked up from his drink and watched her. The pain becomes her, he thought. Where it might have been ugly it was beautiful in the same way that a predator is both beautiful and lethal. The beauty of a predator was nothing without the danger and the pain it carried. It was the allure of the power over life and death- that was what she carried with her and he found it attractive. 

Looking up from her drink she saw him watching her and smiled- a real smile, no mischief, no defenses, no danger, just warmth. It was a connection to something, someone, living and at once he looked away, embarrassed. 

He was so innocent and naïve. That a smile could still make him blush… she smiled ruefully and huffed a small laugh. It was in moments like that when she missed being so blissfully unaware of the world around her. 

The waitress reappeared with another mug beer for the blond one. He had already polished off the first and had waved her down not a minute before. With his drink refilled the blond one turned the conversation to the ground fighting seminar that she had missed that afternoon. Her ears perked up and she listened with interest. Shoes never were her favorite topic of conversation anyway.


End file.
